Reckoning by Alison Luterman

Reckoning

F. says he’d like to give himself permission
to be a dick, just for once, just for play,
and he demonstrates how he’d strut,
chest out like a gorilla, like certain politicians,
and we laugh and cheer him on because in real life
he’s a man who sits quietly with the broken-hearted,
and there are very few people
who can shut up and take in another person’s soul
trying to sing, but he can and somehow
we’re used to the idea of Man
riding roughshod over everything,
like that’s what masculine is supposed to look like,
and I wonder about the dick
inside of me, the one who likes
to swagger and brag,
and plow everyone out of the way–
but then I think of real dicks,
their softness and shyness and sometimes awkward
enthusiasm, the way they make their feelings known
to a listening hand or mouth,
and I think of the good men
I’ve known and what we were all told
about how men needed to behave to even be
considered men and I get it, we can all
be dicks sometimes, the ones of us who slop around
in our cynicism like a pair of old slippers,
the ones who grasp at every glittering thing,
or cling to ancient hatreds
like useless coins from a conquered country.
And maybe the dick is just something
we just have to reckon with
since it’s at the base of western civilization–
even god in the old testament acted like one,
smiting people and demanding tribute like any bully.
So yes, I think we’re just like that god we invented,
who was so jealous and capricious and vengeful.
Maybe He’s just a reflection of us
at our most power-hungry and scared,
and we need to own that part of ourselves,
offer it cool water and a place to chill,
but we sure as hell don’t have to get down
on our knees and worship it.

*

Alison Luterman’s five books of poetry are The Largest Possible Life, See How We Almost Fly, Desire Zoo, In the Time of Great Fires, and Hard Listening. She also writes plays, song lyrics, and personal essays. She has taught at New College, The Writing Salon, Catamaran, Esalen and Omega Institutes and writing workshops around the country, as well as working as a California poet in the schools for many years.

Dear Son by Julie Weiss

Dear Son

I see you crouched behind a bush,
hands cupped around some countryside
bug, whose name and composition
you´ll pull out of the air as if the sky
was a library, earth´s most bizarre
curiosities housed on its shelves.
I used to fret over stings and bites.
Poison. By now, I´ve learned to trust
the knowledge hived in your mind.
I see you, sitting alone on a bench,
your bicycle flung on its side like
an argument you refused to lose.
The park is abuzz. Other eight-year-olds
wham soccer balls, somersault
off bars, play tag or play-wrestle,
but you stare at the grass, building
Lego towns inside dew drops.
Or maybe you´re mapping out
uncharted paths in maple leaf veins.
I see you on deep-read days, the way
your name doesn´t catch the sound
waves travelling to your eardrum.
I, too, know what it´s like to journey
to the center of the story, the red-hot
plot scorching any urge to return.
Sometimes, nothing temporal matters,
does it? Not your unmade bed or half-
reassembled gadget parts scattered
across the floor, not even your meal,
whose flavors have vacated the plate
like a reunion gone awry. At school,
you discover a galaxy in every lesson,
chase comets through your teacher´s
explanations. I foresee the consequences
of your cosmic-quick wit, the jokes
and jabs you´ll have to dodge,
the laughter. Corners you´ll color
in camouflage, quiet as a phasmid.
The asteroidal scars you´ll bring home.
Dear son, rise above the bullies!
Grand Marshal our town´s first bug
parade, naysayers be damned. Build
a road network rooted in leaf patterns,
a rocket ship powered by dew drops.
When time writes your story, know
that every word of it will shine.

*

Julie Weiss (she/her) is the author of The Places We Empty, her debut collection published by Kelsay Books and two chapbooks, The Jolt and Breath Ablaze: Twenty-One Love Poems in Homage to Adrienne Rich, Volumes I and II, published by Bottlecap Press. Her second collection, Rooming with Elephants, is forthcoming in 2025 with Kelsay Books. “Poem Written in the Eight Seconds I Lost Sight of My Children” was selected as a 2023 finalist for Best of the Net, she won Sheila-Na-Gig´s editor´s choice award for “Cumbre Vieja,” and she was a finalist for the Saguaro Prize. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Burningword Journal, Gyroscope Review, ONE ART, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and others. She lives with her wife and children in Spain. You can find her at julieweisspoet.com

Today, I Am Not Kind Because I Love Love, by Abby E. Murray

Today, I Am Not Kind Because I Love Love,

I am kind because I hate hate.
If viciousness drives a luxury car,
I am scratching my initials into its paint
using only the ragged edge
of my tenderness. This may be
the age of distance and shame
but I am kissing the hands of my friends
while I can. I am making it weird.
I am confessing my commitment
to the bumblebee who spent her last calorie
mistaking the palm of my hand
for a buttercup, curling up inside it,
and dying. Sometimes you’ve got to piss
in apathy’s coffee, antagonize the hell
out of indifference. You become
furiously nonviolent, wild with love,
hurling small mercies into your life
like you’re pitching stones
at the closed glass windows of cruelty.

*

Abby E. Murray (they/them) is the editor of Collateral, a literary journal concerned with the impact of violent conflict and military service beyond the combat zone. Their book, Hail and Farewell, won the Perugia Press Poetry Prize and was a finalist for the Washington State Book Award. Abby served as the 2019-2021 poet laureate for the city of Tacoma, Washington, and currently teaches rhetoric in military strategy to Army War College fellows at the University of Washington.

Watching Cabaret by Jacqueline Jules

Watching Cabaret

Forty some years ago,
I saw Cabaret in a college theater.

The female lead was barely five feet. Her lover
hardly a head taller. Both beautiful with big voices,
just toy-sized against the backdrop of 1930s Berlin
and the Nazi rise to power.

Brilliant casting, I thought, getting up
from my seat, though I’ll never know
if the student director chose lopsided
stature to make a political statement
or if our small private school didn’t have
a bigger pool of actors to choose from.

But these days as I worry my country
is dancing away from democracy to march
in goose step, it feels as if I’m a petite actor
surrounded by taller figures
noisily crowding the stage.

*

Jacqueline Jules is the author of Manna in the Morning (Kelsay Books, 2021), Itzhak Perlman’s Broken String, winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from Evening Street Press, and Smoke at the Pentagon: Poems to Remember (Bushel & Peck, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in over 100 publications. Visit her online at www.jacquelinejules.com